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SYNOPSIS:Buried
secrets never stay hidden. They take root and spread through the soil. In time,
the lies breach the surface and the slender stems creep along the earth, climb
and entangle with first solid thing it encounters.

The skyline
punctured the wide-open sky, not a single cloud drifted above Manhattan. The
city bloomed into a fresh season but Isla stood outside and inhaled the whiff
of karma. People weaved around her along the sidewalk as she tipped her head
back and followed the tower of granite and glass. Straight from the airport,
her leather tote was packed for a quick jaunt to Sutton territory.

Isla pushed
through the revolving door, entering into a lobby with the modern
sophistication of white walls with abstract art and hand blown colored sconces.
Behind a stainless steel desk was stationed a uniformed guard. He backed up
against an encased wall of cascading vibrant turquoise water.

She
approached the man who looked like a retired bodybuilder. “I’m here to see, Martin
Sutton.”

“Name?”

“Really?”

“Name?”

“Isla Pierce.
What happened to Donovan?”

He handed her
a small key, ignored her question, and instructed her to enter the elevator on
the left then insert the key above the number pad in the elevator. Not her
first rodeo, she thought, though the penthouse visit was new.

“You know,
the A-Team…I pity the fool. You have the mohawk, and—and the chains.”

With a grunt
he pointed over his shoulder.

“All right,
I’m going.” She turned her back. “Donovan had a sense of humor.” Isla spoke
under breath.

The glass lobby
swarmed with suits. A handful of men and women stepped on and off the
elevators. In the corner, a tall brunette spit obscenities into her phone while
her heel tapped against the marble.

Midtown was
all business, as was she.

Isla stepped
onto the elevator, along with two others. She cleared her throat and inserted
the key. A bell chimed but a number never lit up. Isla removed the key, held it
tight in her fist, and glanced at the man and lady.

Their eyes
adverted hers. Isla gathered her curtain of thick dark golden brown hair and
twisted it up on the top of her head. It was lovingly named the “bitch bun” by
her friends. She checked out the perfectly put together woman. Isla was never a
pencil skirt, silk blouse type of girl. Only when forced would she slip on
heels and her mother’s diamond earrings.

The gears
whined and grinded after each floor; the woman was the first to scurry out. The
man remained silent and stared at his shoes until the elevator slowed and
stopped on his floor. Gripping his briefcase against his chest like a shield,
he sidestepped off. The corners of her lips lifted. She punched a guy in the
gut for accidentally touching her ass
in the elevator and now the entire building was afraid of her.

Awesome.

The cables
tugged higher, a dash flashed on the panel. Martin had been holed up in his
office for weeks, or so he had city officials believe. His family was in
shambles, and he was stirring the family pot, upsetting investors and
shareholders. Martin—the loose cannon—needed to stop taking pages from his
spoiled daughter’s book.

The elevator
dipped and halted. With a loud clang, the doors slid open. Isla cringed and
stood transfixed on the row of buck, elk, and wolf heads mounted above a
gathering of rich leather club chairs. The soles of her boots left the confines
of the elevator and stepped into an urban hunting lodge. The woodsy aroma
flowed about the room with notes of patchouli and cedar as the masculine
bouquet clung to Isla’s skin.

Typically
when she met Martin it was in his office fourteen floors below. It was sparse
in contrast. A filing cabinet here and there, it was filled with standard
office furniture, dark rugs, and a coffee maker in the corner near the
receptionist desk. How many knew of his secret penthouse lodge? Probably not
many, including the officials who would love nothing more than to toss him in
prison for numerous allegations the State’s attorney couldn’t back up.

The windows
were covered with sliding wood panels. The room of stone and varnish was
illuminated by a chandelier of antlers and shaded lamps. Isla stepped closer to
his animal trophies; she saw her distorted reflection in their black eyes.

“Breathtaking,
are they not?”

She whirled
around. “Not the word I would choose.”

“I hunted each
one of these beauties.”

“Not an honorary
member of PETA?”

Martin held
out his hand. “No, but I’m sensing you must be.”

Isla laid the
key in the palm of his hand and looked over at the stuffed and displayed
animals. “I enjoy a juicy rib eye like any other carnivore. I’m just not
particular to mounting the cast of The Jungle
Book up on my walls.”

Martin
laughed, his tenor deep and hearty. If Isla closed her eyes, she’d envision a
man with a heftier waist and trousers nestled just below his man boobs, not the
man before her. Well-groomed in a black suit, Martin’s crown of ash was combed to
perfection. He flashed his gleaming veneers at her and motioned to the closest
chair. Isla sunk into the cool leather cushion and lowered her tote beside her
feet. Martin unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down across from her.

“What
happened to Donovan?”

“Fired after
your little altercation in the elevator. He smashed in Mr. Gibbs’ rear window
with a fire extinguisher.”

“Too bad, I
liked him.”

“How rude of
me. Would you care for coffee or water, Isla?”

“No, thank
you. Why are making threats against the families?”

“Skipping the
pleasantries? I like that.”

Isla raised
her eyebrow. “You aren’t going to like this.”

“I’m not?”

“No. Why are
you stirring up problems?”

Martin rose
from his seat and crossed the room to an alcove of vintage booze and crystal. Ice
cubes clanked inside the glass. “I attempted to contact you a few weeks ago but
you were nowhere to be found. I don’t even think Reed knew your whereabouts.”

“I didn’t realize
you cared. I’m touched.”

Martin poured
the liquor into his glass. “I care for my family, especially my daughter, and I
found her arrest coincidental. I was struck by curiosity. Would Isla know
anything about it and, if so, could she and I come to some type of an
agreement?”

“She pleads
the fifth.”

“Is that how
we’re going to play this? You started this tit-for-tat game.”

Fire licked Isla’s
veins. “Are you five? Do you need a timeout like Mia?”

Martin’s face
flushed red and she didn’t care. His tantrums were annoying and they had been
at each other for some time but in the end, Isla would win. “I came here to
discuss the territories—”

“Ellis sent
you to do his bidding. How noble. Or perhaps you volunteered to impress your
displeased husband. Is that it?”

She shot up
from the chair ignoring his jab. “What do you want with the Jupiter territory?”

Martin tipped
his drink back and lowered the empty glass. “I have every right to a piece. I’m
an investor in multiple properties—”

“Properties
which were foreclosed. Properties you were unable to unload. Properties you
invested in without the vote. Sounds like a personal problem me.”

“My name is
just as important as Ellis’ or any of the families.” He said with a snarl.

“Maybe a
decade ago, but the DA is on a mission to desecrate the Suttons and, at last
check, you’re untrustworthy. Zagotta over in Detroit wants you dead as does a
few others I’m sure.” Isla stuck her bottom lip out. “Sad for you.”

“You will
make Ellis see. You will convince him of my loyalty and my justification.
Besides, he’s incorporating a new city. I know the area. I can return to
Florida.”

Martin’s
voice shook a bit. Giovanni “Vinny” Zagotta’s name did that people. He wasn’t
like the white collars; he was straight on street thug who was a phantom to
police. Cross Vinny and a person’s days were numbered.

Isla barked
out a laugh. “Why in the world would I help you? You got in bed with the wrong
guy. The drug trade isn’t for everyone, and now your daughter is a coke head
spending some quality time with Big Mavis.”

“I’ll expose
you, your clientele, and the millions you’ve stolen. Do you know what torture
techniques the Columbians would use on you? I know all about Ellis’ pet.”

Her pulse
tightened. “Traipsing down the blackmail road, are we?” Isla knelt to pick up
her bag, but was met by polished leather shoes. “Get off.” She yanked on the
strap, tipping Martin off balance, and hoisted herself up. He intimidated most
of humanity — or those without spines. Isla wasn’t one of them.

“You aren’t
some badass hacker chick.”

“You’re
right. I’m worse.” Her jaw tensed. “What pisses you off more? Ellis trusting me
more than your incarcerated, cocaine-addicted daughter, or the possibility of
Reed gaining a controlling interest within the company and being appointed over
the Jupiter territory?”

Martin leaned
closer to her with a smirk. “You’re damaged goods. I know it, and you know it.
You’re out of your depth little girl. Your time is thinning within the family.”

Isla’s heart
roared in her ears. She wanted more than anything to knock Martin’s teeth down
his throat, but it wasn’t her purpose for visiting. Not this time, anyway. She
walked away and pressed the metallic button. His threats didn’t scare her; they
infused her blood with conviction.

“War and
death will come to your city. I am not one to trifle with,” he yelled from
behind her.

“Neither am I,”
she said through her teeth.

Martin’s cold
glare ground a hole into the back of her head, his evil, dark presence hovering
around her. It was a presence she knew well. She had escaped Ronan Walker’s sick,
radical lunacy with the taste of blood still in her mouth.

~

In a heap her
clothes laid next to his feet.

Quivered
limbs lifted Isla. Satin sheets slipped beneath her, and her elbows and knees
sunk into the mattress. The snap of leather stole breath from Isla’s lungs. She
squeezed her eyes shut.

Snap.

His warning
reverberated the bedroom. Isla braced for the first lash.

Isla prayed
for it to be over. Begged God to make it quick.

It never was.

The sting
lasted for hours, sometimes days. Ronan preached to her about obedience;
choking her with scripture and shouting Delilah
as he disciplined her. Isla loathed herself.

How could she
allow her grandmother’s husband to abuse her over and over again? It wasn’t
her. She was strong and resilient, but Ronan had a perverse power over her.

“Lying whore.”

Leather sliced
her flesh.

She bit down hard
on her bottom lip. Tears and saliva dripped onto the sheets. Her punishment
carried on. Isla’s muscles weakened with each lashing. Isla smelled
blood thick within the air, and she tasted it in the back of her throat.

Snap.

She screamed. Her
spine curved at the new wounds. The mattress dipped. Isla sobbed as he ran his
stubble over the gashes. Her fingers dug into the sheets. Death, come to me.

AUTHOR BIO:Amazon
Best Selling Author

Andrea
Johnson Beck was born in Sioux City, Iowa. From a young age, she enjoyed
telling stories. Many her dad recorded. Writing was her creative outlet and at
10-years-old, her first poem was published in an anthology. Always curious,
Andrea read and watched what was considered risqué in the 80's and early 90's,
such as, books by VC Andrews. Dirty Dancing and Top Gun (snuck downstairs)
raised questions and were brought to her parents for clarification.
Understanding their daughter's need for answers, they always replied
truthfully.

Her
curiosity and rebellious disposition has carried on. Andrea credits the strong
woman in her life who guided her through difficult times. That and writing.
Blogging about her marriage, her quirky son, and homeschooling helped her
connect with others around the world.

Life
on Awesome Street is a shared website between Andrea and Logan. Most topics
revolve around homeschooling, the autism spectrum, and mom humor. She's a
columnist for Home & School Mosaics. In the past she has written for
In-Depth Genealogist and Home Educating Family.

In
2012, Andrea self-published her debut novel, Deadly Deception. A year later,
the book was acquired by Montlake Romance and re-released in October of 2013.
Deadly Deception hit #4 on the Amazon Best Seller List in overall paid fiction
in the Kindle Store, it was right behind the Divergent Trilogy. Her second
novel, Deadly Revelation, released April of 2014 and was #1 in Organized Crime
and Crime Fiction and continues to hold a spot in those categories.

Andrea
and her son collaborated and released a short story, Hush, Mary in October of
2014. Also, the mom and son duo are writing homeschool and autism spectrum
books together. Over the years, Logan has impacted and inspired many with his
own personal stories of how he accepted and embraced his quirkiness.

Andrea
lives in North Carolina with her husband Phil, son, and their deaf dog, Bear.
Sarcasm is the oxygen they breathe, as is love and humor.

andreajohnsonbeck.com

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